


Your Weight, Your Shame, and the Devil on Your Shoulder

by voodoochild



Category: Tony Hill & Carol Jordan - All Media Types, Wire in the Blood
Genre: Comment Fic, F/M, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-30
Updated: 2010-10-30
Packaged: 2017-10-12 23:37:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/130400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voodoochild/pseuds/voodoochild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony and Carol measure their lives in takeaway, wine, and three-am visits.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Weight, Your Shame, and the Devil on Your Shoulder

**Author's Note:**

> Written for **melliyna** , for the prompt "wisdom". Title from Kris Delmhorst's "Heavens Hold the Sun".

It's not even a conscious choice any longer.

They never discuss the banalities.

 _(Meet you at yours in an hour. I'll bring curry. Could you pick up a bottle of wine?)_

They never have to confirm or ask permission. It's not as if they've ever denied each other this comfort. They both know that any time of the night, no matter what, their door is always open to each other. It's a given after certain cases, of course; when one of them has walked too close to the edge, come face-to-face with too much evil. But it also happens after even the most mundane of days, when the biggest threat is university budget cuts or pickpockets in Darlington Square.

It used to be her on Tony's doorstep, most of the time. His flat was home base, the place he did his best thinking in. It was smaller, more intimate. A place for advice to be offered and given.

Now, just as often as not, it's Tony ringing her doorbell and pacing her floorboards at four am. Her flat is larger, more organized, easier to move around in. She has a much nicer couch. The change of scenery is just what they need.

But it's still instinctive, the need for comfort and companionship.

The Carol of two years ago - the one who'd never met Tony Hill - would never conceive of this type of relationship. She dated successful, busy men who didn't question either her need for autonomy or her hectic schedule, and she never, ever talked about her job. Most of them didn't want to hear that she worked not only homicide cases, but serial killings. The worst of the worst. Those men would have ran in terror from the things she'd experienced.

Tony has taught her, in his own backwards way, that she needs someone to share the darkness with. Someone who walks with her, every step of the way, and is just as frightened and determined as she is. Someone who doesn't try and convince her that her career isn't as important as a "normal" life.

In other words, someone just as screwed-up as she is.

Oh, he'd protest at her labeling of herself, but Carol is under no illusions as to her own stability. She prioritizes her job over friends, family, and a life outside of police work. She's bolted the DCI armor on so tightly that she can't remove it, and sometimes that scares her. Because just as Tony panics when he can't extract himself from the psyche of a killer - when his stare goes predatory and his speech changes and his body language screams that she needs to cuff him before he hurts someone - Carol worries that she's losing herself under the persona of DCI Jordan, who has the brassiest balls in the station and spits nails when she interrogates.

No weakness. No compromising. Nothing to let on that under the shell, she's just as vulnerable, as feminine, as anyone else. Cold as ice and just as merciless. Unsurprisingly, she's had dreams where she found herself encased in ice, or turning into a female Midas, freezing everything she touched. You don't have to be a psychologist to see what fears prompted those dreams.

She's just woken from the latest frozen-in-ice dream and it's 2:14 in the morning. Like she's sleepwalking, she gets out of bed, tugs socks and shoes over her feet, and trades her pyjamas for yoga pants and a tee-shirt that might actually have been Tony's, once upon a time. She drives over to his flat - doesn't remember turning the key in the ignition or driving along the streets or parking around the corner - and rings the doorbell.

It's like he knew she'd be there, because he answers in just a few minutes.

"Can't sleep?" he asks, red-rimmed eyes and rumpled boxers-and-vest telling the same story.

She shakes her head, and he holds open the door, following her after he locks up.


End file.
